


Punch Me in the Face

by tenderly_wicked



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-07-15 10:26:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7218766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenderly_wicked/pseuds/tenderly_wicked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="https://sherlockbbc-fic.dreamwidth.org/75973.html?thread=260419269#cmt260419269">this prompt</a>. After Moriarty has defeated Sherlock in his own mind palace, Sherlock decides that he needs to improve his fighting skills in the real world. Of course he needs John for that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Punch Me in the Face

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/pseuds/SwissMiss) for beta-ing :)

“Boxing? You?”

John’s incredulous laugh isn’t meant as an insult, of course not. But the idea of Sherlock wearing boxing gloves and headgear is so ridiculously hilarious that he can’t help a chuckle.

Sherlock scowls. “I don’t see why you find it so amusing. Yes, I need to improve my fighting skills. Very much so. Boxing is just a start. And it’s certainly less silly than cycling to work with a spare shirt in a backpack.”

That much is true, John has to admit.

“Why would you need _me_?” he asks.

“Hitting a punching bag is one thing—and fighting with a sparring partner who hits you back is another. I found a gym not far from your place. I’ve been there a few times; it’s quite decent. There might be some morons among its frequenters, but it’s always so with public places. Will you join me?”

His question sounds unexpectedly hesitant, like Sherlock for once isn’t sure that John _will_ come.

John sighs. “Fine. But it’s been a while since I tried boxing.” _Or since I’ve been in a gym at all,_ he adds in his mind. He’s not entirely sure if he looks fit. Maybe he’s even gained a few pounds recently. He expects Sherlock to taunt him about it. On the other hand, the thought of a fight, albeit a friendly one, fills him with excitement. _Oh well. You’ve always been like that, John Watson_.

The gym Sherlock has taken trouble to find is really close to John’s house and rather decent indeed. But Sherlock, having been here before, must have annoyed local fitness goers. Three sturdy men cast unfriendly glances at Sherlock and appraising ones at John. They’re not exactly hostile, they don’t even come close or say anything, but John is good at detecting potential trouble. Not that it makes him too worried. It’s more like a welcome tingling of anticipation. _Something interesting is going to happen._

John thought he would use a pair of gloves from the gym with his own handwraps, but it turns out that Sherlock has bought the necessary boxing equipment not only for himself, but for John too. John grumbles a little about the fact that Sherlock should have asked him first, but of course having his own 16oz gloves is so much nicer than choosing between community ones, smelly and sometimes torn, very unhygienic. A brand new mouthpiece will come handy too.

John was afraid that he’d look unfit in comparison with the muscular gym guys, but Sherlock looks much worse than him, and it’s of some consolation. Usually so elegant in his sharp suits, without his armour, Sherlock is somehow diminished in importance. Wearing trainers and a hoodie, he resembles a tall gawky teenager.

John suggests that they do some warming-up first, maybe a bit of stretching and moving around, then a bit of shadowboxing—mimicking a fight without making contact—and working on a heavy bag. He can hardly imagine Sherlock jumping rope, though it’s a good warm-up too.

When it comes to shadowboxing, John realises that he’s much more experienced in the art of throwing punches than Sherlock, though he hasn’t had much practice in quite a while. It’s nice to go into a mentor-like, commanding mode and give Sherlock tips on defending and attacking. Sherlock seems to have been YouTubing boxing matches and video tutorials to get the basics, but training solo, without a proper coach and a live opponent, isn’t enough to develop the right skills. Sherlock makes all the mistakes newbies usually do. He has a tight body and tight fists when not punching instead of being relaxed and then quickly accelerating his hand towards the adversary. He lets his head lean forward past his knees, which makes it an easier target, and his feet lift when he punches, which decreases his balance. John tells him that. Sherlock grows sulky.

“Don’t you get too hot in your hoodie? Why don’t you take it off?” John asks when they get into the ring.

Sherlock seems to hesitate for a moment, then peels it off. In a white vest, he looks even more angular and thin—thinner than he should be. As Sherlock turns to throw his hoodie onto the ropes, John catches a glimpse of whitish scars across his shoulders, and it’s as much a shock as the first time John saw them. He never asked about their origin. He doesn’t ask now either.

They start with two-minute rounds. At first, they mostly move around in the ring, without much real action, hands up, heads behind their gloves, knees slightly bent. John watches Sherlock methodically probing at his defense and corrects his own flaws, getting into the rhythm, blocking or ducking out of the way. It almost feels like dancing.

Finally, they start throwing real punches. Sherlock has the advantage of being tall, but he opens up too often, bringing his non-dominant hand down, so it’s easy to get into range without getting hit or using too much energy. John takes a mental note to tell Sherlock about it later. Or maybe it’s better to show him the possible consequences. A fast jab to the head, followed by a left hook as a diversion, and then the real deal—a powerful right uppercut into his solar plexus… And Sherlock goes down onto the floor, the wind knocked out of him.

“All right?” John asks, taking the gloves off.

Sherlock doesn’t answer. John squats beside him. “Sherlock? Are you all right?”

“Mmgh,” Sherlock says. “Just…just a moment. I’m fine, really.”

“You see what happens when you drop your hands,” John tells him. The rush of pleasure at a well-delivered combo has gone, and now he feels guilty. He’s here to help Sherlock learn how to fight, not to beat him up. It was better to warn him about his mistake.

“I shouldn’t have exercised with the punching bag first,” Sherlock murmurs, trying to sit upright.

“Why’s that?”

“I seem to have overworked my left hand again. It looks like the sparring is over for now.” He sounds almost apologetic.

“What’s wrong with your hand?”

“It’s just an old trauma. Nerve damage. Could be worse, or so I was told.”

John feels his voice go husky when he asks: “Did it happen when you… fell?”

“No, later. In Serbia, a few days before I returned. I was hanging by my wrists for too long.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know what,” Sherlock says, not looking him in the eyes. “Serbia. A military base. Me, caught red-handed there. Mycroft must have told you. I didn’t want him to, but maybe you wouldn’t have forgiven me so easily otherwise. It must have had an effect on you, knowing that I didn’t exactly enjoy the time on my own.”

John chooses his words carefully. “How badly were you injured?”

“It was nothing life-threatening. My hand took the longest to heal.” Sherlock scowls, as if in disdain for his own body. “It still acts up sometimes when I overwork it. That’s why I wanted to start right with the sparring.”

“When you showed up in the restaurant and I hit you…you didn’t fight back because your hand was damaged?” This thought feels like a sudden punch.

“Of course not,” Sherlock retorts instantly. “My right hand was perfectly fine. I _could_ fight. I just didn’t want to. Not with you.”

John remembers Sherlock’s nervous attempts at joking, at promising him a case with exaggerated enthusiasm. His behaviour seemed theatrical, and as it turns out, it _was_ acting on Sherlock’s part. He must have been worn out and aching, but he didn’t want to spoil his surprise.

“You’re an idiot. Do you know that?” John utters with helpless exasperation.

“So Mycroft keeps telling me, though he does it in more delicate ways.”

“He’s an idiot too. He didn’t tell me anything, not a word. Does your hand bother you often?”

“Mostly when I punch with full force against something solid. But again, it’s nothing life threatening. I can get through this.”

“You should have stopped if something felt wrong!” John tells him with frustration. “Why do you never stop in time?”

Sherlock shrugs.

On impulse, John touches Sherlock’s arm, strokes it slightly. “Still hurts? Let me help you with the gloves.” He takes them off, murmuring, “I should take a look at your medical file. It must be your ulnar nerve. Maybe physical therapy would help. I’ll show you what to do.”

“You don’t have to. Don’t feel obliged.”

“Oh you idiot,” he repeats and—unexpectedly for them both—pulls Sherlock into an awkward hug. “It’s not an obligation, me caring about you. Do you know that?”

Sherlock doesn’t try to push him away.

When they leave, it’s dark outside. There are three men loitering in the car park they have to cross. The same three who were giving them such ugly looks inside. John hadn’t given them another thought until now.

“Hey, freak!” one of them calls out. “Is that your little boyfriend? Did you enjoy hugging and groping in the ring?”

“I seem to have brought you into trouble,” Sherlock tells John quietly. “It wasn’t my intent.”

There’s so much tired regret in his voice that John feels his heart clench. He doesn’t mind trouble. He does mind Sherlock facing it alone.

So he says, “Wherever you bring me, I follow. If you let me. Or sometimes even if you don’t.”

He moves a little to stand by Sherlock’s left side and guard it in case Sherlock’s arm acts up again. He’s not good at making speeches. But he might be useful in a fight, and that’s the way it should be, always. _You and me against the rest of the world_.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on [Tumblr](http://tenderlywicked.tumblr.com) now. There's more fannish stuff :)


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